


the vanished hour

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [162]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Battle of Camlann, Comfort Sex, Consensual Infidelity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-it, Episode Related, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Introspection, M/M, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: When Arthur kisses him, Merlin's eyes are wet.Written forMerthurDaily's10 Years of Merthur Celebration 2018, Day 5: AU/Change the Scene.





	the vanished hour

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [long deaths ago, your heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095967). Please read that one first!

 

 

Arthur listens to Merlin talk without interruption. He has been hearing some variation of this speech his entire life, always with the same urgency and emotion: the end is coming, the end has come—the end is already here. At some point, he’s stopped believing in endings.

 

Merlin is frightened, though, that much is clear. Arthur has seen him afraid before—he doesn’t trouble to hide it—but this is something different; more visceral. If he hadn’t walked in with those strange clothes and a bag full of miraculous things, Arthur might have thought—well. He’s thought a lot of things over the years, not all of them kind ones. But Merlin is shaking in his seat, eyes fixed on his hands as he talks, Arthur’s too-large shirt slipping over his collarbones and exposing his neck. He looks petrified.

 

“Mordred will be the one to do it,” he says finally, looking up. “His blade—it was forged in a dragon’s breath. It will kill whatever it touches.” A deep breath, shaking on the exhale. “Including you.”

 

 

+

 

 

It’s too much, all of it—too big to wrap his head around.

 

“Stay here,” Arthur orders, walking out of the tent. Outside, the preparations for battle march on, quieter now that the sun has gone down but no less important. Men hurry between the white pavilions, carrying weapons, shields, spears. The air is sharp with blood and polished steel.

 

“Trouble, my lord?” Guinevere says behind him, her skirts rustling slightly as she moves over the grass. She has her hands clasped together, a habit she has adopted to keep herself from fidgeting, but her eyes when they meet his are calm. “Is Merlin all right?”

 

“He’s—” Arthur gestures with one arm. “He’s Merlin.”

 

She nods; between the two of them, that is explanation enough, although for the first time Arthur wonders what it actually means. Has he ever known his friend at all, these past ten years?

 

“He’s a sorcerer, Gwen.”

 

“He told you this?”

 

“He showed me.” A ball of light, painfully familiar. “He’s been helping us— _lying_ to us—all this time.”

 

She tucks her arm through his, and they watch a loaded wagon roll by, the last of the long supply train that will feed his hungry army. He could lose all this. He feels like he stands at the brink of a precipice, waiting to be pushed or saved, he doesn’t know which. He could lose all this, or he could gain…something. Peace. Whatever it is they’re fighting for.

 

“Should we trust him?” he asks Guinevere at length. It seems the most salient question.

 

“Absolutely,” she says without hesitation.

 

He’s expecting her to follow up with something else, some explanation that will make sense of this ungodly mess, but when he asks her why she thinks so, she just shrugs. “Because he’s Merlin,” she says. “Isn’t that enough?”

 

 

+

 

 

  
When he returns to the tent, Merlin is still sitting where Arthur left him, eyes closed, his knees curled up to his chest.

 

“All right,” Arthur says, and watches him spring to attention. “All right, supposing what you say is real, what then? What would you have me do?”

 

So Merlin tells him. It turns out he has a very detailed list.

 

 

+

 

 

It’s after midnight by the time they’ve finished, the candles nearly guttered out. Arthur doesn’t even realise he’s been rubbing his eyes until Merlin sits back, pale but satisfied, and declares that the king ought to get some rest.

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur protests, yawning. “We still have a lot of ground to cover.”

 

“We’ve gone over most of the important things, I think,” Merlin says, getting up. He steps around the table and chivvies Arthur to his feet, shifting the weights from the map so that it springs up at the corners. “Just remember not to let Mordred stab you, and I think we’ll be all right.”

 

It should be funny, maybe, but the joke falls flat. There’s something too strained about his smile, and from here Arthur can see the hollows of his cheeks, the dark shadows under his eyes. He takes a step forward, half thinking about Guinevere and her darkened tent, the tacit understanding in her face when she’d said good night.

 

“Undress me?” he says. It shouldn’t be a question. “For old time’s sake.”

 

“You mean because you still haven’t figured out how to do it yourself?”

 

“I mean, because I’m asking you to do it.” Another step forward, direct and unambiguous. “If you want to, that is.”

 

Merlin’s hands are warm and steady at his throat, gentle as he unties Arthur’s laces. When he’s done, he lifts the shirt over Arthur’s head and just holds it for a moment, frowning at the soft material as though uncertain what comes next.

 

“Merlin?” Arthur prompts him. “What is it?”

 

“I remember this shirt,” Merlin says, as if from a distance. “You wore it when—”

 

He stops, and nothing else comes out. Arthur has a sense of stepping over the edge, of hurtling into something unknown and dangerous, and he can see that Merlin, too, is just realising that this is real, that they are really here. He drops the shirt, his entire body shaking, and Arthur has to step forward quickly for fear the man will faint, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s waist and holding him as hard as he dares.

 

When Arthur kisses him, Merlin’s eyes are wet.

 

 

+

 

 

They sleep pressed together overnight, Merlin’s nose tucked into Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur’s face buried in Merlin’s hair. By rights, Arthur should have felt him waking, but when he opens his eyes in the morning there is no sign of Merlin—even his pack is gone, the place where he had slept now cold and empty.

“Morgana’s army is on the move,” Leon says, when Arthur joins him. “What are your orders?”

“She means to attack before the night is through,” Arthur says, squinting up into the mountains. “Prepare the men. The battle is about to begin.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out the final part in the trilogy!


End file.
